


Bound by Word

by 98tuffluv



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe-Medieval, Angst, Eventual Fluff, Lots of Angst, M/M, Major Deaths in first chapter, Medieval AU thing, Political Bullshit, Torture, and death in the second chapter, like very very brief, potential for a happy ending, very brief torture scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 17:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11257812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/98tuffluv/pseuds/98tuffluv
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov was born into a world that didn't love him. Surrounded by devious plots and raised by a mother who wants to use him as nothing more than a pawn, Viktor learned the hard way that love is a fickle and pointless endeavor. After being cast out by the people he called family, Viktor begins to seek revenge from the shores of Japan.Yuuri Katsuki was born into a world that adored him. The heir that the country needed, Yuuri was beloved by his family and his people until the military staged a revolt. Yuuri learned that night that life was a fleeting and precious thing. After his family was murdered, Yuuri did everything he could to stay alive, while simultaneously searching for a way out of the hell that his life had become.Both princes have lost their titles, their homes, their families, yet have very different circumstances. But, fate is a funny thing, and their paths are far more entwined than they ever could have realized.





	1. Beginnings

Candlelight was all that illuminated the hallway in the darkness of the night. A gentle breeze rustled the curtains, pushing them towards the gray stone walls before they were shoved out of the way as the sound of a multitude of footsteps slammed on the floors. A sharp scream cut through the air, but the footsteps did not falter, and only stopped once they were outside a thick wooden door.

A freshly born baby's wails awaited them as the group of people shoved the door open. There was a sickly woman laying in the bed, her hair was spread in a stringy mess around her sweat draped body. At the end of the bed, a midwife clutched a bloodied, writhing body to her breast, and stared with wide eyes at the newcomers. It only took a second to realize who they were there for and she quickly rinsed the baby, rolling it up in a fresh blanket before cradling it once more, and trying to get it stop screaming as it desperately searched for food.

While that was occurring, a taller man with dusty blonde hair approached the exhausted woman, “Tsarina Natalya Nikiforov, you're hereby under arrest for conspiring against the crown of Russia,” the man announced, stepping aside so that more people could rush forward, and began to pry her from the bed. She did not struggle, too tired to bother, and they seemed completely uncaring about the copious amounts of blood that stained the bed sheets, her clothes, and the woman herself. They began to move to just carry her, but the midwife abruptly stepped forward, and jerked her head towards the child in her arms.

“He needs to eat before she's taken anywhere,” she said, voice shaking a bit despite her resolve, and the man in charge seemed to find that request to be acceptable and simply nodded. Relieved, the midwife pressed the baby into the Tsarina's arms, and the faint queen managed to get the baby clamped onto one breast to feed.

Taking the chance, the midwife pressed a bowl of water to the queen's lips, and managed to get her to drink down some of the last liquid that she would see for a while. The baby took his time eating, suckling slowly as though sensing the growing tension in the air, but eventually he simply fell asleep in his mother's arms. His mouth draped open slightly, releasing the nipple from between his lips. The queen barely had time to pass the boy back to the midwife before she was yanked from the bed, and dragged unceremoniously out of the room.

The baby stirred and began to cry again, wailing well into the night despite the midwife's attempts to get him to calm down. The boy did not meet his father that night, his birth was kept quiet, and for good reason.

His mother, the Tsarina, had attempted to have her sister killed or cast from Russia had fallen pregnant at the worst of times. She was supposed to be strong, but when rumors began to stir that she'd slept with her sister's husband in a pitiful attempt at getting back at the wanna-be queen the Tsarina's grip slipped. Nearly half of the country rebelled against her, her own blood rallied to have her thrown into prison or killed for betraying the family in such a way. Her sister's husband, only trying to keep himself from being put under fire for going behind his wife's back, claimed that the Tsarina had used magic to seduce him into her chambers and that he wasn't in his right mind when that night had occurred. The debate raged on, the country was nearly torn in two, but they finally came to an agreement.

The Tsarina would be removed from power. Her titles would be stripped and she would be left to rot in a cell. To console those that didn't want that, there was a promise that her child would be an heir of some sort. If it was a girl, she would be married to a prospective king, and live her days as a queen of a different country. If it was a boy, he would be given titles, land, and would be in line for throne succession if the new Tsar and Tsarina were unable to bear any children by the time the child turned eighteen years old or if their children perished and left the throne empty. Regardless of sex, the child would be raised by the castle staff and their aunt and uncle until they came of age. They would be allowed to see their mother once a month on strictly monitored visits, but otherwise all contact between the two was to be cut off and watched.

The night that Viktor Nikiforov was born was the day that the Tsarina officially lost her position and was tossed into a tower to live out the rest of her days. She was left completely alone, without company, and without a scrap of entertainment left to her disposal. Meanwhile, the young prince would be fed by whoever was able too, and passed around from person to person until he was old enough to be on his own. It was a miserable existence for anyone to live through, never truly feeling loved save for the one time a month that he was able to visit his mother.

While he was a baby, she would simply rock him, feed him, and hold him close as though he were the most precious thing in the world to her. Which, he was, but not because he was her child. Natalya Nikiforov saw the child as a way to get back to the throne that she believed to rightfully belong to her. He would become her pawn in an intricate game of political warfare, taking out anyone who stood in the way of what was rightfully her's. Of course, she'd lie. She'd tell him that it all should have been his regardless of her captivity, that he wasn't loved by the rest of his family, that they all deserved to burn for what they did to their little family. She told him that they plotted to kill the man that would have been his father (even if he wasn't biologically so) and that they'd set their sights on her afterwords. Her silver tongue filled his head with falsehoods about her heroics in supposedly saving both of their lives and securing a better life for him.

Despite the hate that he was taught to feel, Viktor was a surprisingly happy child. All bright smiles, rosy cheeks, and good nature. He was adored not only by the staff, but by anyone who met him. He was well behaved and absolutely precious, which greatly pleased the queen and king who had been afraid that his mother would somehow manage to poison his mind. However, with his outward appearance of being so welcoming and warm, they didn't worry, and that only allowed Natalya to dig her nails in deeper.

When Viktor learned to read and write, he and his mother figured out a secret code that they could write to each other with in their practice letters to each other. Natalya insisted that it was just for fun while he was young, but the letters continued to flow between the two for years after. Initially, it was innocent, but, once Viktor was old enough to understand, they began to change. Plots, schemes, and other things that would have both of them beheaded transpired between the two, but no one suspected a thing.

Of course, that would only come later. For the time being, Viktor was only a small child, precious, and adored. He refused to have his hair cut, letting the strands grow longer and longer with each passing year. The servants around the castle said that the tint in his cheeks and ice blue of his eyes were the winter's touch since he'd been born during the coldest time of that year. Despite that, his heart was full, and his delighted nature nearly had people thinking he'd been born in the spring rather than late on the 25th of December.

He grew and learned. He was prepped for leadership, marriage, and just plain educated. He learned to read, write, speak a multitude of languages, economics, and any other item that would be important for a king to know. Not that it was guaranteed that he would get the throne, but even years after his birth, the Tsar and his wife had yet to conceive a child. With no one there to secure the throne, all eyes were on Viktor, and the boy set his eyes on the throne.

Perhaps the only true thing that his mother had told him was that his aunt and uncle held no love for him in their hearts. His biological father saw him as a reminder of his disloyalty to his wife and his aunt could only see his mother in him from his eyes, to his high cheekbones, and especially the shimmering silver of his hair. Neither of them wanted him to be their successor and they began searching for any way that they could force him out of the castle and perhaps to be alongside his mother.

What they didn't know is that neither of them would ever conceive a child again. Natalya Nikiforov was indeed one to dabble in the forbidden arts and had made sure to curse the both of them with infertility. Her magic also helped keep the guards from noticing that she and Viktor were talking about less than legal things and even began to pull a few under her thrall. After all, she and Viktor alone couldn't overthrow the long standing rule without some help.

For many years, things seemed to be going well. Viktor grew into a handsome young man, easing into his teenage years with a beautiful grace that captivated the hearts of many (even those outside the country). He and his mother continued to plot, because both knew that the Tsar and Tsarina would do everything in their power to keep him from taking his rightful place as king, and, for a moment, things were perfect. Viktor did as he was told, behaved as a good prince should, but none seemed to be any wiser to the hate that he held in his heart for the only other kin he had aside from his mother.

Unfortunately, it was too good to be true.

Viktor was freshly sixteen, sleeping soundly in his bedroom despite the blazing blizzard outside. His hair was spread out around him and his chest rose and fell gently beneath the blankets that warded off the cold. He was none the wiser that the Tsar had produced false evidence, but was actually right on the mark with assuming that Viktor had been plotting to kill him within the next two years. It would be much easier to overthrow a Tsarina after all, but he would never get the chance to slip anything into the king's drink or to hire someone to slam a knife into his heart while he slept.

Instead, the night after his birthday, Viktor was crudely jerked from his bed in a mock reenactment of the night that his mother was dragged to her cell. His eyelids were crudely opened wide as he demanded to know what was going on as he was roughly handled and pulled towards the throne room. He was still blinking the sleep from his eyes as he was pulled down the lengthy carpet and forced to kneel in front of his father. His head was shoved down, his arms yanked to the side, and his knees bit into the harsh material beneath them as the man slowly rose from the throne.

The Tsar appraised him with cold disinterest, then approached, and nodded to the guards who grabbed a fistful of Viktor's hair, and yanked it back, “Prince Viktor Nikiforov,” he began, voice booming, and Viktor felt his chest cease as the falsified documents of his and his mothers 'plot' were plucked from his breast, “You and the ex Tsarina Natalya Nikiforov have been accused of plotting to kill the Tsar and Tsarina of Russia. This is an act of the highest treason, punishable by death. What say you in your defense?”

“Uncle-” he began, but a harsh tug on his hair had him wincing and biting back a cry of pain, “Your Majesty,” he ammended, already knowing that it was to late for him, but he could at least try, “I would never do such a thing. Surely this has to be a mistake!”

As if waiting for him to say such a thing, Viktor's father unfolded the papers, and shoved them into Viktor's face. Admittedly, they were wonderfully forged, and Viktor nearly breathed out a sigh of relief when he realized that they hadn't actually been caught, “Is this not your signature?”

Viktor's eyes flicked to the bottom of the page, where a nearly identical copy of his signature sat, and he quickly looked back to the Tsar, “Someone must be framing me, uncle, please-” another yank on his hair had him stopping. He gritted his teeth, biting back tears as the foul person before him leaned forward to look at him directly.

Their eyes met and a menacing grin spread across the Tsar's face, but it was quickly stifled as he straightened up once more, “So it is your's. Well then, as the Tsar I have no choice. You'll be executed publicly-”

“No!” Viktor shouted before he could stop himself, but he seemed to have startled everyone enough, “I'll confess my crimes, but do not kill me Uncle. Have that much mercy in your heart,” he pleaded, hanging his head as though he'd been defeated, “Someone will discover that the documents you have are forged. If you kill me and the kingdom finds out that I was innocent, that would look bad for you, yes?”

A tense silence filled the room until the Tsar cleared his throat, “You have no proof that these are falsified documents,” his voice sounded uncertain, wavering, and Viktor jumped at the opportunity to ensure his survival.

“Not yet, but someone will look into it. Someone will find out,” he insisted, lifting his chin high as the Tsar glowered at him, and tried to glare him into submission. Viktor refused and simply stared him down without care. He wouldn't give up so easily to the man who was attempting to ruin everything that Viktor had been trained for simply because the Tsar disliked him.

Another pause and then the Tsar seemed to have an idea, “Perhaps death is too merciful for such a horrible deed. I can't keep you locked up here, not with your traitorous mother in the same position. No, for your crimes, Viktor, you will be banished from the land of Russia. From here on out, your titles are revoked, and the blood that runs through your veins is insignificant. You will spend your days as an outcast.

“However, you are still my nephew,” _son_ , Viktor wanted to bitterly remind him, but held his tongue, “So I will arrange passage for you to be taken to Japan, just across the sea. I'm sure you will be able to start a new life for yourself there.”

Viktor's heart dropped in his chest and he went to protest, but it seemed that the guards had been given permission to drag him from the room and to the castle cells where he would wait for his punishment to be carried out. He shouted in protest as he forcibly removed and struggled to get back to the ruler of Russia, but the doors closed, and he finally gave up. His fate hung heavily over his head and he could only imagine his mother's reaction to discovering that he had been falsely discovered.

After traversing through twisting halls and stairways, they finally reached the cells. He was unceremoniously shoved into the cold, dark place, and didn't even have a chance to sit up before the doors slid shut and the guards walked away with a snort. He pulled his knees to his chest, cold already nipping at his bones as he helplessly tried to pull his nightgown farther down and closer to himself to keep what little warmth he had left in.

He hung his head, resting his forehead on his knees, and letting his hair fall like a curtain around him. It helped keep some of the heat from his breath locked in, but did little else than that. The cells were not insulated properly, which was intentional, but Viktor had never imagined that he'd be locked in one. He swallowed down the despair that threatened to bubble up and reminded himself that he could have been facing the executioner's ax rather than simple banishment.

Of course, his uncle would see to it that he was removed from Europe, and sent to a country that wasn't fond of them. Russia had always seen Japan as a weaker country and the people that populated the area weren't often kind to any tourists or immigrants from their European neighbor. On top of that, Japan had been in a revolt for several months, and it was a hell-scape at that point in time. Viktor knew that the country choice was deliberate, but he was determined to make the best of it. He would return to Russia, one way or another.

He managed to doze off for a few hours, despite the bitter cold, but the approach of footsteps woke him instantly. He lifted his head, eyes widening when he recognized the figure in front of his cell, “Mother?” he darted forward, numb fingers barely managing to curl around the freezing metal.

He was greeted with a harsh smack to the side of his face and he fell back, holding the aching skin, “You failed me Viktor. You let yourself be caught,” the words came out, followed by a flurry of spittle as she stared in distaste at her son, “You are no son of mine, I should have seen you for the disappointment you were when you were young.”

“M-Mother, I didn't-”

She cut him off harshly, eyes flashing despite the darkness of the cells, “Hush! You deserve whatever punishment my brother deemed fit for you. You are no king, you are barely worthy of becoming a peasant,” she spit at his feet and clasped her cloak tighter around herself, “Let us go now,” she said to her escort, huffing, and turning away from her child and leaving without another word.

Viktor sat numbly for a moment, staring at the ground with tears in his eyes that slowly formed into a drop and fell to the floor. He only let a few fall before a bitter laugh shook him and he blinked them all away. He should have known that there really was no love for him in the world that he'd been born into. Sure, people would ooze his praises, and his family would put up a front for the sake of keeping the people sated, but there had never been a place in their hearts for the child that no one had asked for.

His mother had only seen him as a means to get power. His father never wanted him in the first place. His aunt had nothing to do with him. The castle staff had only dealt with him because they were instructed too. The people had only wanted him to sate a debate that had threatened to tear the country in two. Viktor had no one to care for or to care for him and maybe that was for the best.

Any tears that he'd had dried up that night. Any love that he'd felt hardened to stone. And for the first time in his life, Viktor felt the cold that had been burrowed inside him since birth.

 

_**~~~****~~~** _

 

While Russia prepared to celebrate their young prince's fourth birthday within the next month, Japan was celebrating its own birth. A young prince, named Yuuri Katsuki was born in the cool November months. He was the second child to the Katsuki family after his sister, Mari, and was part of a dynasty that had ruled for several generations. He was to be the next in line to take over the throne once his father passed, replacing his sister as the heir to the throne.

Yuuri grew up in an environment completely different from the Russian prince's. Love and warmth filled every crevice of his life and Yuuri had no idea how lucky he was to have an adoring family such as his. There were no political plots, no circumstances surrounding his birth...he was to be the next emperor and there was no question about that. Sure, there were still those that sought to destroy the Katsuki family, but those people weren't the family themselves.

Things were fine, until the night that Yuuri turned twelve years of age. The royal family members were all gathered together to celebrate the prince's birthday, much to his dismay and protest, when the palace was ambushed. The family had been unaware of the attack being planned on them by a small group of rebels that wanted the emperor disposed of so that the military could gain power instead.

They only heard the main doors busting in and barely had time to react. Yuuri's mother frantically hurried her children to the servant's passages and shoved them inside with instructions for them to flee as far as they could from the palace. The Katsuki family needed to continue somehow and keeping the younger generations alive was the most critical part of that.

However, Yuuri didn't want to simply run. He waited until Mari had run a distant ways ahead of him before he turned back and slid open the door that their mother had pushed him into without thinking of the potential consequences that could wait for him there. He peeked past the thin paper that separated the secret passage from the other room and stared in horror at what was before him.

His mother sat with his father's head resting in her lap. She was shielding him with her body, withstanding various blows as the men attacking her tried to get her to get away from him. Blood was staining her dress, seeping into the beautiful, delicate fabric, but she didn't care. She flinched with each blow, but still she hunched over the emperor, and withstood every hit that had been meant for him.

“Mom!” he cried out and ran towards her before he could stop himself and instantly, the small woman's head jerked back to where her son stood.

“Yuuri, no!” she nearly moved from her spot, but another whack from the butt end of a whip had her sinking back over her husband's limp form, “Run Yuuri! Run!” she pleaded, but it was too late for the prince.

The soldiers descended on him and wrangled him to his knees. They bound his wrists behind his back and smacked him harshly until he stopped struggling. Blood dripped from his lips and he spat it on the floor while lifting his eyes to glower at the man responsible for all of the terrible things that had happened that night.

The general stepped forward, eyeing the prince with distaste, but his gaze ultimately settled on the emperor and his wife, “Move her,” he snapped and, despite her desperation, his mother was pulled away. The emperor's head hit the floor with a loud thunk that caused the other two royals to flinch. He was still, the only sign that he was alive was the uneven rise and fall of his chest as his body struggled to keep him alive.

There was no ceremony. No declaration of words. No attempt to brag. Instead, the general simply took a sword, and stabbed into Emperor Katsuki's still-beating heart.

Hiroko screamed and it took Yuuri a second to realize that he was as well. More blood soaked the floor and Yuuri soon found himself face-to-face with it as he was shoved forward. A hand held his face in the pooling liquid as he was forcibly held in place, “No, no please! He's still a child!” he could hear his mother begging for his life, but he could hardly comprehend it as his heart pounded in his ears.

“Relax Hiroko, I'm not going to kill him,” the general finally spoke and the bright polish of his boots came into Yuuri's vision, “I have very different plans for this boy,” he all but spat the words and Yuuri strained uselessly against his bonds.

A fist gripped his hair, yanking him up from his position on the floor, and he bit back a scream of pain as the general looked him over, “He'll make for a good example, don't you think Hiroko?” he spoke his mother's name tauntingly, then jerked Yuuri until he was facing the distraught woman, “Kill her,” within seconds, more blood joined the pool, and Yuuri choked on his tears as he stared at the bodies of both of his parents, “Find the girl, she can't be far. If you can't, find me a body that looks similar. This one is the only one that survived tonight,” he tugged on Yuuri's hair, pulling another wince from him, “Put him in a cell. We'll show off our newest servant to the kingdom tomorrow.”

The general released the prince, but Yuuri barely got any reprieve before more soldiers dragged him from the room. Yuuri was still in shock from what he'd just witnessed and didn't find it in him to fight until he was nearly to the palace's holding cells. Only then did he realize what was happening and begin to struggle, but he could do little against the much larger men that shoved him into the sealed off room. The door shut without any other hesitation and Yuuri banged on it and screamed himself hoarse well into the night.

Once his voice finally gave out, Yuuri collapsed on the floor, and curled in on himself. In just a few, brief moments he'd had everything taken from him. His family, his life as he knew it...it was all gone. He gritted his teeth, tears leaking from his eyes, and dripping down his face. He finally let out the sorrow that had been building in him since the night's festivities had been interrupted so crudely, but it did little to comfort him.

Instead, he was left with a headache, but he paid it little to no mind as sleep overtook him. He let the darkness swallow him and, for just a moment, he graceful for the peace.

It was some of the last that he would ever know.

 


	2. Burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized that I made a mistake in the last chapter regarding Yuuri's age. He's actually meant to be freshly twelve, not fourteen.   
> Also, be warned, this chapter does contain a brief torture scene (nothing super graphic, but there is mention of blood), and more death. Needless to say, these two are not in very happy situations right now.  
> (See end of the chapter for more A/N)

“Get up,” a voice pulled the frozen teen from his slumber and Viktor blearily pulled his eyelids apart. He winced, lifted his head, and was greeted by the sight of an armored guard standing in front of him with a heavy set of cuffs and a ratty old cloak in their hands. There was no point in fighting, so he lifted his wrists up after prying them off of where they'd all but frozen to his legs.

There was barely a temperature difference between his wrists and the cuffs and he was genuinely surprised that he'd been able to stay as warm as he had. Fingertips blue, lips chapped and sickly looking; his entire body was stiff, cold, and unwilling to move even as he was forced to his feet. The chain that connected his wrists jangled as the guard led him out of the cell and shoved him down the hall with a harsh hand on his back. It was almost bitterly hilarious how just the day before he'd been standing in his bedroom with servants fretting over his birthday clothes.

At least the castle was warmer and gave him a brief moment to regain some body heat until he was led back outside. He was shocked to see a large crowd standing out front, some cheering, others screaming something along the lines of foul play and treachery against the true crown. Viktor felt dizzy just seeing them and it took him a second to remember that he hadn't been put up for execution, it definitely looked like the crowd was there to watch an executioner's ax. He was pushed to his knees and the hard, frozen ground bit harshly into his skin, but he could barely feel it at that point.

Slowly, he looked around at the crowd that had gathered. Every person seemed angry in some form, a few were smug, some looked fearful, and others appeared almost ecstatic to see what was going to happen. Viktor had an inkling that they thought that he was going to be executed and he could imagine that they were going to be severely disappointed when that didn't happen. It should have been obvious to the lack of a basket or an executioner, but people seemed to crave violence. Unfortunately, they wouldn't be getting it on that crisp December morning.

Of course, he didn't know how deep the hatred ran for his mother and himself. Quite a number of people thought that she was a witch who should have been executed for manipulating the Tsar. The feelings towards the Nikiforov family were mixed, but there stood a stark difference between those who supported them and those who didn't. It was evident in the people's eyes that morning on who was on which side, but Viktor knew that it wouldn't matter in the end. His father was the Tsar and the Tsar wanted him gone, no matter what the people thought. If he was hated for it, he could just remind them that he gave Viktor a chance, and Viktor threw that chance away by betraying the crown. Which was both a lie and the truth all at once.

Sure, Viktor had been plotting to take the throne, but it was rightfully his if his aunt didn't produce any heirs, which she hadn't. Of course, he had to take out the Tsar to get there. It was what he deserved at what he'd done to Viktor's mother. Or...that was what he'd thought. It was obvious then that she'd just been using him to exact her own idea of revenge and that it really had nothing to do with Viktor. He hated that he was oblivious enough to fall for that, but there was no going back. The thought left him confused about his alliances for a brief moment, but it didn't take long for a spark of hatred to turn into a raging bonfire.

If his mother wanted to toss him aside, then fine, he would get her back for that. If his father wanted him gone forever, then fine. If his aunt wanted to pretend that he'd never existed, then fine. If the traitors among the crowd resented him, _fine._ He would get them all back in due time. He was a patient man, he could take all the time that he needed, but he had to live through this hell first. He'd be back though. They wouldn't get rid of him that easily.

He hung his head, hair falling in waves around him, and his eyes falling shut until he heard footsteps approaching. He started to lift his head to see who it was, but he was jerked back by his hair and he hissed in pain as the fistful tugged painfully at his skull. As much as he loved his hair, it did seem to get be the perfect handle for his captors, but he wouldn't be dealing with it for much longer.

There was a sudden weight lifted from him and it took a second to realize that something was missing. His fingers brushed through strands that hadn't been so short since he was a baby, trembling from effort, cold, and the barrage of emotions that threatened to overtake him. He swallowed back his tears and sat silently as his father lifted up the silver locks for the crowd to see, “Prince Viktor Nikiforov, son of the traitorous Natalya Nikiforov has been found plotting with his mother to kill the remaining royal family. He has confessed of his crimes and will be banished from this country-” a roar of disapproval and a softer shout from those who agreed followed and it took some time to get the crowd calmed down enough that the Tsar could continue, “No longer will he be allowed to plan the demise of this great country! And let this stand as a reminder to any that would dare to attack Russia and her people. We will not tolerate treason, even among the highest born among us. Take him away,” he gestured at the guard and Viktor was hauled to his feet. His knees screamed in relief, but he could still barely feel any of his limbs. Russia's winters were harsh and unforgiving, no matter the occasion.

There was more noise, more people trying to either save him or jeer at him as he was dragged past the gaggle of peasants that had gathered. Viktor couldn't bring himself to look at any of them while he was loaded into the back of a rotting wagon. The guard tossed the cloak at him and he immediately bundled himself up in it, grateful to have anything to keep warm as snowflakes began to drift slowly from the sky. It was a precursor for what was to come; a bleak, harsh storm. He shivered as a snowflake fell onto his exposed nose and he kept his eyes downcast as the driver picked up the reigns and began to drive away.

The ride was long, boring, and painful, but he was lucky he was even given a chance to get out of Russia before he was straight up killed. He'd expected to just be turned loose and chased to the ends of Russia until he was either caught or managed to cross the border into a different country. Thankfully, under the fear that he would be caught lying, the Tsar seemed willing to compromise on that much at least. It left the door wide open for Viktor to return, garner the support of his people, and claim what was rightfully his, but he had to live through it first. And he would. He wouldn't rest until he was back on the throne. He wouldn't even kill his father to do it.

No, the bastard didn't deserve that. A liar, power-hungry, and cruel ruler like himself didn't deserve to be thrown from his high standing because of death. Viktor would sit in the royal chair and watch his father and aunt grovel before him, pleading for their lives, and he would smile graciously and grant their wish. They'd thank him through their tears, hands clasped together before Viktor ordered the guards to remove them from his sight. They'd be stripped of all of their warm clothes, their titles, and everything else and set loose to the public. From there, the peasants could decide what to do with them. Either way, they were out of Viktor's hair, and he would forever savor the fearful look on his father's face when he's shoved to his knees.

Yes, history would repeat itself for his father and aunt, but his mother would be a different story. A sharp pang of anger stabbed at his heart and he glared at the gnarled wood beneath his feet. She was the worst out of all of them. His father and aunt had been transparent in their desires, but she had manipulated him from birth. He'd kill her personally. No fancy executions, no time for second chances. He would steal into her tower, drive a sword through her ribs, and watch her bleed until her last rasping breath echoed through the room like a hauntingly beautiful lullaby.

The wagon came to an abrupt stop and Viktor looked up from his thoughts to see that they'd arrived at the port that would house the ship he'd be riding on. There wasn't time to get in contact with Japan to have them send a ship, but there was a cargo boat making trade anyways, and the captain had graciously agreed to take Viktor with. He'd be dropped on the shores and expected to hold his own from there, but Viktor wasn't too worried about that. He knew Japanese fluently enough to get by, he was strong, and he'd be willing to work as hard as he could to claw his way out of the bottom of the barrel that he'd wound up in.

The guard that had been with him throughout the whole ordeal grabbed his shackles and yanked him out of the wagon. He was slightly surprised to see a key, but the weight of the manacles getting removed from his wrists was welcome. With his newly freed hand, he wrapped the cloak tighter around himself, and looked out to the sea where the ship rocked in the small bit of water that wasn't frozen solid. He was probably luck that a ship could even get close enough to the shore for boarding.

“Well, there's your passage,” the guard gestured to the ice, a grin spreading across their face as they pushed him, bare-foot and shaking, farther into the snow, “Better hurry before they leave without you. The wolves will pick you clean.”

Viktor forced himself not to glower and instead straightened his back and trudged through the snow without looking back. His feet burned as the cold seeped all the way to his bones, but he kept going, and dropped down onto the ice. A plank was lowered from the edge of the ship and placed on the precarious surface once the crew realized that he was approaching and he slid his way gracefully to the ship.

The wood was at least better than the ice and he stumbled on board, breathing heavily through his nose. Each breath was agony, his nostrils ceasing in producing any sort of insulation to instead burn like his feet, but he was reluctant to subject his mouth to the same thing. His cheeks were bright red, but the rest of him was either as white as the snow or edging towards frostbite. Maybe his uncle had only seen to make it seem as though Viktor would be fine until he was out of public eye. Dying of hypothermia in the middle of Russia's winter wasn't uncommon, he could easily blame Viktor's passing on the cold...bastard.

“Somebody find him a spare pair of shoes for hell's sake,” a voice boomed over the deck and Viktor turned his head to see someone who could only be the captain descending down the steps, “I don't see how you plan to pull your weight on this ship in bare feet, _boy_ ,” the word was spat out, but Viktor got the distinct feeling that this individual didn't actual despise him.

There was a brief scrambling as the crew hurried to obey their captain's orders and the older man approached Viktor with a frown settled onto his heavy, wrinkled face, “I'm Viktor Nikiforov sir,” Viktor realized that he was no longer in a position power and awkwardly jerked his hand out from under the cloak towards the man. He stared at it as though Viktor had offered him a stick and he kept his hands into the pockets of his long coat.

“I know who you are, get that hand back under there before you lose it to the cold. You'll be lucky to keep your feet,” he muttered grumpily and shouldered past Viktor to stare down the men who came out of the lower deck with a couple of shoes in their hand, “See if any of these fit. Georgi! You're closest to his height, get your spare clothes for him. He'll freeze to death in the flimsy excuse for a cloak and I don't intend on carrying dead weight on this ship.”

A tall, dark haired men bowed his head, and returned below deck. Viktor was left standing in a slightly stunned and awkward position, but the men approached with the shoes, and he picked a pair that looked closest to being able to fit his feet. They were a little big, but they were lined with furs, and he'd take anything warm at that point. It was strange to be among commoners after living his life in such a pompous standing, but they didn't seem to care that the ex-prince of their homeland was standing among them.

“Here Yakov,” the man, Georgi, returned with a bundle in his arms. The captain grumbled and jerked his head towards Viktor and Georgi pushed the clothes onto him until he secured them in his grip. It wasn't anything fancy, a basic coat, pants, and a baggy shirt, but it was better than the nightgown he'd been stuck in since he'd been dragged from his room. He murmured his thanks and pulled the pants on underneath the gown.

He risked exposure to the cold air and dressed himself the rest of the way, letting out a breath of relief as the heavy clothing settled onto his body. It fit pretty well, Georgi and himself were relatively similar in size and build, but Georgi was a little taller, “Better,” Yakov grunted out his approval and dragged his sleeve under his nose, “You'll work as a cabin boy for now. Just keep your mouth shut and do what anyone else tells you that has to do with ship work,” he shouted over his shoulder, a couple of piercing glares being towards sailors that immediately averted their eyes, “Cast off, we have weeks before we get to Japan, and we're already behind schedule.”

He brushed past Viktor again, climbing up to the stern of the ship while the crew ran around to get the sails lowered, and the anchor raised from the depths of the sea. It took a short while, but the ship began to drift farther into the water, and Viktor turned his head, watching as the scenery of his country disappeared behind him. It wouldn't be the last time that he saw Russia, but it would be over a decade before he set foot on her shores again. Until then, all he could do was look towards the future.

 

**~~~****~~~**

 

Yuuri was woken as the door slammed into head. He yelped, jumping back, and holding his head as he stared at the intruder with tears building up in his eyes. Whoever it was didn't seem to care that they'd hit him and grabbed him by the hair to get him to his feet. They released their grip their, but curled their fingers around his small wrists, forced his arms behind his back, and started walking down the hallway.

The young prince could hear his heartbeat in his ears, could feel it threatening to explode out of him as fear and anxiety coursed through his veins. He wanted to run, he desperately wished that he had run with Mari, but he could only hope that she'd escaped. He'd made his decision, he had to live with the consequences, but that didn't stop his small form from trembling as he stepped into the intimidating royal hall.

Once filled with life and beauty, it felt decrepit and cold. The lamps cast out a glow that should have been warm, but Yuuri could only see the dark shadows, the lack of people, the lack of his _family_. His mother and father were gone and he had no more than a handful of hours to mourn them. The sorrow was still present in his chest, but he had to do his best not to cry. Crying showed weakness and the general didn't need to see his tear-stained face for a second time.

The doors slid open and Yuuri gritted his teeth as his feet nearly slipped on the polished wood. The general was sitting in the place that Yuuri's father should have been, the place that Yuuri was supposed to grow into. Hatred and anger must have been evident on his face, because the general's face split into a grin, and he reclined further as if displaying the sheer amount of power he was holding after his coup the previous night.

“I hope you slept well,” his tone was patronizing and it made Yuuri's blood boil, but he held his tongue. He'd seen the man kill his mother and his father, Yuuri didn't doubt that his life was in a very precarious position as well, “The public will be glad to see their new emperor in the flesh. After all, it's much better to take the throne after having it abdicated by the royals themselves.”

“No,” Yuuri felt ice clawing its way down his spine at the thought. He would _never_ betray his family like that, _never_ , “I won't do it and you _can't make me_.”

The man's lips slipped from the easy smile that had been resting there and he scowled, fingers gripping the edge of his seat before he relaxed, and sat back once more. His mouth twitched upwards again and Yuuri could feel his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he beckoned with his hand, “I was afraid you'd say that.”

A side door opened, the door reserved for the royal family, and Yuuri stared in horror as Mari was dragged into the room. Her face was heavily bruised and blood stained her dress, but she was otherwise alive...alive and exactly where Yuuri had prayed she wouldn't be, “Yuuri-” the man holding her smacked her across the face and she fell back into silence, teeth driving into her lower lip to keep her whimpers silent.

“Let her go,” he began to struggle against his captor, but their grip only tightened, and he flinched at the bruising grip. His eyes were wide and frantic as they fixated back on the general who looked very pleased with the turn of events. He was torn in that moment. He knew before anything was said that Mari would be killed or worse if he didn't comply with the general's command to hand over the empire, but was saving his sister worth the entire kingdom?

“Take a walk outside with me, Prince Katuski,” the plastered grin never left his face as he gestured and walked out of the throne room. Yuuri and Mari were dragged along with until they reached a balcony. A servant opened the doors, but only Yuuri and the general stepped forward. The person holding Yuuri let go and the younger man rubbed at his arms, squinting into the light before he realized that there was a swell of people below him. They had all gathered, called by the general undoubtedly to witness the passing of the throne, “It's simple Yuuri,” his voice was low, only loud enough for Yuuri to hear as his small chest rose and fell rapidly, “Publicly hand over the power in Japan to me and you and your sister will be sent somewhere to live out the rest of your lives in peace. Refuse and I'll kill her here and now.”

The stiffness in Yuuri only grew worse as his mind scrambled to come up with a third option. There had to be a way, there _had to be a way_ , but he couldn't _think_ , and everything was too much and he _couldn't_...he couldn't move, couldn't breathe correctly, couldn't force his mind to function correctly until the general's hand came to rest on his shoulder and squeezed fiercely, “Better hurry, the people are anxious after last night's unfortunate events.”

Yuuri's fingers curled into his palms and he swallowed down the anxiety that had begun to overcome him. He had to be strong, had to brave. He let out a slow breath, eyes closing for a second before he stepped to the railing of the balcony, and drifted his gaze out towards the gardens that wound through the palace.

Yuuri had spent most of his childhood running through those plants with Mari. The two of them were a mischevious duo, but they both looked out for each other. They'd play in the gardens, occasionally admiring the flowers of the cherry blossoms, or stopping to poke at the carefully raked gravel. They splashed through the still pools of koi that panicked and fled from their stomping feet. Those had been better days...he wished that he could go back.

It had only been one night since the world came crashing down on him, but he didn't know that he could stand to lose another member of his family. While cruel, the general could lead the country. Yuuri was only twelve, he wasn't prepared to bear such a large responsibility so soon. The seconds dragged by like decades as he weighed the pros and cons of either action, but the decision was already made before he could fully realize it, “My mother and father are dead,” the crowd, once bustling and speaking among themselves quieted, and stared at their prince, “I...” he faltered for a moment and glanced at the man on his left.

Memories of the previous night, of his mother hunched over his father, of the sword plunged into a dying man's chest, of the strangled cry of his wife as she met the same fate, of his own screams and cries as he watched them die right in front of him flooded his mind and resolve steeled his nerve, “I watched them die at the hand of this man,” he jerked out of the general's grip, pressing himself against the balcony, and pointing accusingly at him, “He murdered them! He's a traitor-” the doors flung open and soldiers stepped forward to grab Yuuri by his waist to forcibly pull them back, “I won't give in!” he gripped onto the railing for as long as he could, but they finally pried him off, and shuttled him back inside.

He was shoved to the floor and a foot connected with his gut, causing him to wheeze in pain and curl up around himself, “Insolent brat!” fingers jerked his head from the ground and brought him face-to-face with the person responsible for all of his misery, “You'll pay for this. Kill her,” Yuuri didn't even get a chance to look before Mari's scream of pain hit his ears. A heavy thud told him all he needed to know and he clenched his eyes shut, trying desperately to hold back tears, “You killed her, Yuuri. This is your fault.”

The fingers left his hair and a broken sob left him as he crawled to his sisters limp body, “Mari-” He pulled her head into his lap, hands cupping her cheeks, and looking at her pained expression with sorrow in his eyes. Her hand came up shakily to rest on his, but it dropped only seconds after it made contact, and the rest of her life left her in a final breath.

Another cry of agony broke through his gritted teeth and he hunched over her, tears dripping onto her expressionless face. He didn't regret his decision, he could hear the angry cries of the public as they demanded entrance to the palace and began fighting past the guards to get there. There was a minor feeling of satisfaction at that realization, but he was soon pulled from his mourning once again, and manhandled to his feet.

His cheek stung and his head snapped to the side as a hand connected with the skin before fingers came to dig into the leftover baby-fat, “I'll think of something to do with you,” a snarled voice snapped and Yuuri glared through his tears. Despite everything, he refused to bend, “Take him to the dungeons, post a guard outside the cell. The rest of you, come with me.”

Yuuri was left in the company of a singular soldier, but he was no match for them. He was marched down into the stony confines of the dungeons, shoved face-first into a pile of hay, and turned back just in time to watch the door close. For a brief moment, he had some reprieve, and he used it to cry out the last of the tears that he had for his father, mother, and sister. All taken from him too early and in the cruelest way imaginable.

He wasn't alone for long, however. The door opened only an hour or so after he was taken down there and he found himself back on his feet again. He was led farther down into the dungeons, but he had no idea where he was going. He never visited this part of the palace, it always sent chills down his spine, and he was beginning to get an idea as to why.

The room he was led into was relatively barren. Only a table sat offset to the left and a pair of manacles hung from the ceiling. Yuuri's wrists were strung up into the chains, leaving his toes barely brushing against the floor, and putting all of the tension onto his arms. It wasn't designed for comfort, but the cuffs were the least of his worries.

Glinting horrifically in the dim light of the room was a tray of devices that had the hairs on the back of Yuuri's neck standing on edge. The man that had brought him into the room picked up a wicked looking knife, but almost gingerly used it to cut away the robes he'd been wearing until he was left only in his pants. The door opened again and the general entered along with one other person. He seemed amused at Yuuri's predicament, but Yuuri couldn't make out the other person's expression, “You're free to begin,” a chair scraped across the floor, but Yuuri wasn't paying attention to that as the knife returned, and dug into his skin until a scream leapt from his throat, “You're going to give it up, one way or another. I already have the power, Yuuri. This little rebellion won't get you anywhere.”

He could feel the warm blood trickling down to stain his pants, but he shook his head regardless, “A man cowardly enough to torture a child doesn't deserve to rule.”

“So be it,” the knife bit into his skin again...and again...and again.

Soon, pain became his life. The dark stone was his only scenery, his hands quickly grew numb from him dangling, and he didn't remember what his body looked like when it wasn't cut and bruised. He'd spend years in that predicament, forever refusing to officially give up the throne, much to the general's frustration, but it did little to change the fact that he wasn't ruling. The general had declared a sort of martial law. Technically, Yuuri was still a figurehead, but the general wanted to do away with the emperor status completely. Without Yuuri's complacency, however, the people still insisted that there was one. Still, Yuuri made few public appearances over the years. He was always covered from the neck down, always pale, always straining against bright lights, and flinching at loud sounds before he was inevitably returned to the room of his torture.

Slowly, he began to withdraw into himself. He didn't hope for freedom, didn't believe that anyone really cared that much. The years crawled by, he barely noticed the passage of time, barely noticed his body changing, barely noticed anything outside of the pain and the brief moments of relief when he was let down to sleep on the cold, hard floor.

Ten years he was stuck in that dungeon. Ten years he held true to the resolution that he'd made when he was twelve. Ten years before he finally tasted freedom once more. Ten years before he could get on the path to reclaim his revenge.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THAT THIS TOOK ME SO LONG  
> It's been a weird time in life. Honestly, I haven't been doing anything, but I haven't had creative juices at all. I've basically been a potato for the past few months, but I'm starting to come out of that. It also didn't help that I got into Voltron and got hyper-fixated on that, but I still love YOI, and I really do want to continue this story.   
> Also, apologies for any mistakes. This story isn't beta read and I'm not the best at going back and editing ;.;  
> Anyways, this story isn't dead, it should update more frequently (hopefully), and I am very, very sorry for anyone that's been waiting for this to update since I posted it. Thank you for reading, your comments and kudos give me life, and enjoy! <3

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was listening to some awesome music, and got heavily inspired to write this! I've wanted to do a medieval AU for YOI for a while and I thought that this would be pretty cool. I hope you guys enjoy and, if you really like it, feel free to leave kudos and comments, because those just make my day <3 Also, please forgive me for any mistakes. I may love history, but I'm not the biggest buff on it, and this universe should be taken with a grain of salt. This work isn't beta'd, but I'm doing my best to edit it myself.
> 
> Family relations for the Nikiforov family (since there's not really any canon as of yet):  
> Natalya: Viktor's mother, sister to Veronika. Ex-Tsarina of Russia.  
> Veronika: Viktor's aunt, sister to Natalya. Current Tsarina of Russia.  
> Ivan: Viktor's father/uncle. Married to Veronika, brother-in-law to Natalya. Current Tsar of Russia.  
> Alexei: Natalya's husband. Ex-Tsar of Russia (deceased).


End file.
